Shepherds of the Dead
by NinaTheNoble
Summary: It is not long after Murphy and Connor are put in The Hoag when the dead start to rise. The two take on the end of the world in a way that only the saints can. Rated for language
1. Chapter 1

**Authors note: Hello. This is my first attempt at fanfiction. Ever. So please let me know what you think. I dont really have anything planned for this story, I just felt like the Saints in a zombie apocalypse would be an interesting tale. This story takes place after the second movie. So, again, please let me know what you think and thank you for reading!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Boondock Saints or The Walking Dead or any of their characters.**

**Chapter 1**

Sheep are of a peaceful existence. They generally only trouble themselves over food and their young. They rarely quarrel amongst themselves as long as there is plenty to chew on. The air of peace surrounds them, emphasized by their rhythmic crunching on the spring grass and the quiet bleats that pass between ewe and lambs. Perhaps that is why my dreams have brought me here tonight. There are not many pleasantries left in the waking hours so I always cherish when my dreams treat me to a perfect day.

Which is exactly what this dream is. A perfect day.

The late afternoon sun throws shadows across the sheep. The lambs are at the perfect age, where they are small enough to disappear entirely in the lush grass but strong enough that they move around in leaps and bounds of sheer joy. I don't know if this dream is actually this vivid, or if my memory is kicking in to provide me with the familiar, calming smell of the horse which I sit astride as I watch the jovial lambs.

On my right is my twin brother, Connor, and on my left is Rocco, each atop their own beast. That's how I know without a doubt that this is a dream, not only was Rocco spared from this hell hole long before it even came to be, but that bastard wouldn't have been caught dead with livestock of any kind. He barely tolerated that fucking cat (Scrapy or Skippy or whatever the hell its name was) before he shot it. He never would have done it on purpose, but I think he was just relieved to be rid of it.

This is what I'm thinking about as I look at Rocco and his mount, I'm even starting to smile, when I hear it behind me. Heavy, gurgled breathing. Fuck, there goes my peaceful dreamland. I wince as I turn back to Connor, I already know what I will see but my dream wont allow me to spare myself the sight. My few precious dreams all end this way, as my worst possible nightmare. I face Connor just in time to watch the life drain from his eyes and his easy smile change to a growl of desperate hunger. His skin yellows and splits into huge wounds that don't bleed. Connor is dead. Well, undead. This is my greatest fear in a world that no longer knows anything but fear. I wake with a jolt. Not only do I not want to see Undead Connor, but more often than not, the breathing that interrupts my dreams comes from the real world. So I'm not at all surprised when the growl only gets louder as my scenery changes from the rolling hills of Ireland to the rusted fire escape of a Boston back alley.

I look down to the ground below and see a small group has gathered below me, pawing at the wall. They must be running out of living souls to devour because they appear weak, their attempts to reach me are pathetic at best. That's why I sleep out here, despite Doc's disapproval, I'm not worried about them reaching me. Of course they find me, I'm out in the open not very far above them so they can smell me easily. I don't tell Doc, but that's another reason I sleep out here, to attract the passersby. One must always remember to enjoy the little things in a world that's gone to complete shit, and one of my little enjoyments is being able to pick off a few more of these fuckers first thing in the morning.

Killing is one thing I am good at, always have been, even before when it was the living on the business end of my gun. That doesn't mean I enjoy it. I kill out of necessity. I wish I didn't have to kill these- well I can't call them people, but that's just it, they aren't people. They used to be people, they still sort of resemble people in their overall appearance and manner of motion. Take, for example, this female below me, I would guess she was a librarian based on her sturdy shoes and modest dress, but now the dress is soiled and torn, and her face is mostly missing revealing her toothy skull below the rotting layers of flesh. I don't feel bad as I send a bullet between her hallow eyes, in fact I feel certain that if there was even a shadow of the person she used to be left inside her, she would thank me for putting an end to what her existence has become.

"And shepherds we shall be," I mutter to myself sarcastically. Its been months since we uttered the family prayer. It doesn't seem to apply to this new life in this terrible new world. This is no command of God's that we are carrying out. This is survival, at least, and mercy, at best.

I finish the other two quickly and wait for a few minutes to make sure no more come around the corner. Not a day goes by that I don't thank God for the silencers on my Berettas, they only make enough sound to attract the undead that are nearby, unlike an uninhibited gunshot which would attract half the city. When I'm confident that nothing else heard the gun, I duck back in the window. Connor is already awake, and I silently send a prayer of thanks that Undead Connor is still exclusively in my dreams.

"How many this morning, Baby Brother?"

"Ah, shut the fuck up, Con, you know I'm probably older!"

"You know that's all bullshit, Murph. So, how many?"

"Just three. Slow morning for the end of the world." He smirks and nods to the coffee to indicate that its ready.

Whether he intended it or not, Doc has a pretty good set up for an apocalypse. His building is located on the outer skirts of the city so we rarely encounter groups larger than five corpses. In addition to the prime location, the building has three levels: the upstairs with plenty of room for the three of us, the basement with food storage and an ancient water pump that is by some miracle still working, and the main level which is the bar which has more whiskey than any Irishman could dream of, for a little while. The old bastard has always been on the paranoid side so he was stock piling things long before the world came crashing down, especially whiskey, bless his heart. But people aren't supposed to survive an apocalypse as long as we have, and even with Doc's hoarding and the grocery store down the street, we are running low on supplies.

I'm just dipping a stale cracker in my coffee when Doc shuffles in the room.

"Morning, Fuck Ass! Beautiful day in the Zombie Apocalypse!" I greet him cheerfully

"Ah, Murph, you didn't sleep outside again d-d-did ya? FUCK! ASS!"

"Aye, Doc. Slow morning, though, only three corpses," he gives me a scowl over his thick glasses so I add, "don't worry I'll move them after breakfast."

* * *

I remember the first walking, rotting corpse I encountered. I told Connor that day that we will know all is lost when we are no longer fazed by that smell. Months later, we stand rigid with our noses scrunched against the odor. I guess it is comforting to know that not quite all is lost just yet. It has always amazed me that something that's relatively functioning can smell so absolutely wretched. It has become common, familiar even, but still not easily dealt with.

The smell doesn't improve any once they have been extinguished for good, either. Actually, come to think of it, nothing does. Death used to be simple. People would crowd around their departed loved ones and declare how peaceful the deceased looked, how they looked to be sleeping. These three corpses at my feet have long since resembled anything akin to serenity. Their faces are forever frozen in the state of mutated desperation that they were in when my bullet entered their skull. Connor and I kneel beside them and pray for souls that have long since departed these bodies. Even without our old prayer, it still seems wrong to neglect the souls that used to harbor in these shells. We cross ourselves and get to work.

In the old world, the warehouse was used for parties and teenage debauchery, but since there are no longer any sentient teenagers left in this part of the city, we have been using it for disposal. We call it The Tomb. It has been a long time accumulating corpses and our senses are overwhelmed by the sheer numbers every time we pass through the doors, which are always open. We've discovered that the stink of the mass corpses tends to drive most of the undead away from the warehouse, making it typically easy to pass the two block span from McGinty's pub to The Tomb.

I push the wheelbarrow with the three corpses while Connor keeps lookout. It has been so long since we have come across any of them this close to The Tomb that I've stopped worrying about it, Connor, on the other hand, is an ever vigilant lookout. That's why when I run into Connor's outstretched arm; I turn to him to tell him to "calm the fuck down" like I have on many such occasions. I see he's looking straight ahead with a mix of confusion and determination, and the words choke me before they can assault the quiet of street. Well, the usually quiet street, when I follow his gaze, I'm not sure how it took Connor physically stopping me to pull me from my thoughts. There are about a dozen of them, milling around between us and The Tomb, making inhuman guttural sounds. They haven't noticed us yet. Between the smell of The Tomb and the three corpses in our wheelbarrow, our scent is concealed. Without a word, we start backing up, careful not to make a sound. A slight breeze picks up from behind us. Fuck. I can almost watch our scent pass over the vacant space to the closest one. Its head snaps up and its body jerks towards us and its face contorts into a feral growl as it takes us in. we have officially lost any hope of subtlety. I don't know if it is in response to our smell or the growl but every single one of the mutated undead on the street stops to take on their own versions of the same reaction.

Connor and I each pull out our twin Barretas and start taking them down with precise ease, never wasting a precious bullet. Twelve is a manageable number. Con and I have handled that many living targets that were shooting back, these undead pose no threat. We can terminate these strays and haul them into The Tomb and be back to the pub for lunch. We just about have them all knocked off when another one comes around the corner, then another, then they are pouring into the street. Apparently, these stragglers hadn't strayed as far from their herd as I initially thought.

Every time we leave the safety of the pub our 9mm are completely loaded, 15 bullets in each gun. Even before the apocalypse, we rarely would leave home without our guns, they have become extensions of what we are. We stopped carrying additional clips, though, because we rarely ever used more than 10 rounds each, let alone 30. So here we stand, 60 bullets diminishing between us, and an ever increasing mob rushing towards us. It is evident that we no longer stand a chance.

"Run!" I yell at Connor, as if he doesn't already know.

"No fucking shit, Murph!" he counters as we turn back and run. Even as we are running for our lives, here at the end of the world, he is still a smart ass.

It is a blessing that we only have a block to go, because they are starting to fall in behind us from the alleys. We scramble into the door, slam it shut behind us, and push the reinforcements in place just as the mass of bodies pound into the side of the building, shaking the walls, a bottle of whiskey falls off the shelf and shatters across the floor. I look at Connor and I can see my thoughts reflected in his features.

Boston is no longer safe for the living.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

I don't know how it started. I don't even know if anyone ever knew. I know it didn't start in the Hoag, but it spread quickly once it came. We had only been behind bars about a month when one of the guards came in for his night shift with a raging fever. I guess they sent him to the guard's barracks to sleep it off. He must have been one of the early ones because nobody knew what to make of him when woke up dead the next morning. He had already infected several guards and a few inmates by the time they decided he was a real threat.

They tried to tase him, but what is electricity to dead tissue? So he bit a few more. They tried to restrain him, but he dug his fingers into their flesh. Finally it was decided that he was too much of a hazard to try to take alive, so they started shooting. I guess when you are shooting someone you know, you don't typically aim for their head. The guards shot close to 30 rounds into this guy and he was still advancing. Finally Romeo, fresh out of the infirmary, took one of the guards' guns with a speed that only Romeo could have. He shot the dead guy between the eyes and handed the gun back to a startled guard as the deceased finally crumpled into an unmoving heap. Romeo even held out his hands for them to cuff before they were able to react and apprehend him for what he did. No time was wasted sweeping Romeo away to solitary. That was the last time we saw him.

The worst of the injured were rushed to the infirmary where they died of fever before nightfall. The inmates who only received minor scratches or bites were sent back to their cells where they also died of fever. That was the loudest night of my life. Moans became growls that echoed off of the cold brick walls. In the morning, when they opened the cells, all hell broke loose. The dead had risen again and no one was prepared for it.

Connor and I had observed enough of the previous day's excitement to be able to keep ourselves alive. Most of the guards were among the walking dead so it was easy to swipe keys and weapons during the pandemonium and get to a relatively safe spot to watch. This was like nothing I had ever seen. Everyone's heard the phrase "like shooting fish in a barrel" but this was more like throwing a few piranhas in a barrel of fish. The scene was absolutely morbid and terrifying. Most of the living didn't stand a chance against they onslaught of the dead. They were quickly overcome and, of course, eaten. I'd be lying if I said that I saw what I saw with strength and indifference. Or that I didn't vomit the when I watched a dead inmate eat the face off of a still screaming guard. However, I will not pretend like I didn't find some sick enjoyment out of watching some of Boston's finest criminals being ripped to shreds, it saved my brother and I a lot of trouble.

We planned on going and getting Romeo out of the hole, we even made it most of the way there when we heard the dead down the hall. It gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "dead end." We yelled for Romeo but heard no response other than the dead growling and staggering towards us, towards sound. We had no choice but to escape.

Here we are again with the same choice left. We either flee or succumb. The numbers outside are bearing heavily on the door, causing it to creak under the stress. Doc shuffles down the stairs to investigate the commotion and takes in our stance against the door and the sounds creeping through the wood.

"Pack your shit, Fuck Ass! Its time to make like a tree and get the fuck out of here!" Connor yelled at the old man. Doc didn't move, his expression changed from one of surprise to one of sadness. We knew the day would come when we had to leave the city; we had gone back and forth about what we would do. We had decided to "acquire" a vehicle, a Hummer we've named Hubert, fill it with supplies, and have it fueled up and ready to roll at a moments notice. We named the truck Hubert after the Patron Saint of Hunters, since it seems that is what we have become, what all of the living have become, if there are any left other than us. Hubert is parked in a garage two blocks over, we can easily get to it along the roof tops if the streets are overrun, which they are.

What we couldn't decide on was what Doc was going to do. There's no delicate way to put this, he's old as fuck. His leg has been bothering him enough to make him strictly dependent on his cane. He is not ready to take on the new world outside the bar, he never will be, but there is no way in hell that we are willing to leave him behind. He hasn't swayed from talking us out of it, though. "I'll only slow you boys down" was his first argument. When he realized that we were more than willing to take that chance he changed his argument to that of a stubborn old man. He claims that this bar is the only thing he knows, that it is his home and he has no desire to die anywhere else. "If it falls, then I fall with it" is the argument that he is sticking with, no matter how much we try to dissuade him. Like I said, stubborn old man.

"Why don't ya b-b-boys go on-"

"NO!" Connor and I yelled in unison. The sadness deepens in Doc's expression.

"Come on boys, ya know I can't make it out there," Doc tries to reason.

"We ain't leaving ya, Doc. We will figure it out," Connor argues.

"I will not be responsible for putting you boys in harm- in harms w- in fucking danger. Fuck! Ass!"

"Doc we don't have fucking time for this! We are not leaving you! I will throw your sorry ass over my fucking shoulder if that's what it takes," I'm starting to yell, because I can see we aren't changing his mind.

"Murph, ya know ya ain't going out in the street with that many of 'em out there and ya know ya ain't getting me on the f-f-fucking roof." I think I hate him right now. I hate him for thinking that we could leave him, and I hate him for being right; we have no choice but to leave him. I have no response, so I just glare at him as he glares back. We could do it. We could survive, help Doc survive, of that I am certain, but only if he is a willing participant. We can't make him leave. He must see it in my eyes as I reach this realization because his expression softens. I drop my gaze to the floor and shake my head slightly to dispel the tears that are starting to choke me.

"It'll all be alright, Murph," Doc says softly as he puts a hand on my shoulder. I put my hand over his and shake my head, still not looking up; there is no possible way this will be alright. I pull away and go the bar and take down three shot glasses and Doc's finest whiskey. Connor is still all fire and determination.

"Doc, listen to me. We can take care of you, we can handle this. I will not run away and leave you to become one of them!"

Doc hesitates, "Connor, you know I won't be- I won't become- I'll fucking shoot myself first." I watch the blood drain from Connor's face. He meets my gaze and holds it. We never allowed ourselves to consider it. The idea of Doc killing himself is not an easy one to swallow, but it is better than him turning into one of the monsters that are pushing against the door.

"Doc," Connor whispers, the fight has left him, "they will still eat you."

"No, Con, they might eat my body, just as worms would have done in another lifetime, but The Lord will t-t-take care of me where it counts."

Connor pulls Doc into a rough embrace and tries to fight the sobs that are shaking him. Doc pats Connors back soothingly.

"Well I don't know about you two, but I need some fucking whiskey," I say because I can't handle any of this.

They come over and each pick up a full shot glass. We raise them up, but there are no words to toast to this. We throw them back; the whiskey runs warm and smooth down my throat. The sensation reminds me of when we first met Doc. The whiskey was not as fine and Doc was not nearly as bent with age as the man before me now.

It was about 15 years ago, when Connor and I first landed in Boston from Ireland. We came across the ocean with big ideas and big dreams for this big land. We had been in the lovely South Boston for almost a month and we had yet to find a source of employment or a place to live. We were on the streets, out of food, out of money, and fresh out of the steam of ambition that drove us here. It was late afternoon when we were wandering the streets and happened past McGinty's. We had found the pub almost as soon as our feet hit Boston soil, and we had frequented it in the early days while we still had money and hope, but we hadn't been there for weeks. We unconsciously paused in front of the doors as the smell of potatoes and cabbage wafted out, reminding us of our hunger.

The loud crash broke us from our day dreams of plates of steaming food. That was when we heard the yelling. We went in without hesitation to see a dirty prick holding a gun to the bartender, whom we had only known as "Fuck Ass" at the time. Doc was behind the bar, hands up, and shaking, but it was evident by the look of defiance on his face that the shakes were not rooted in fear. There was a bottle of whiskey on the bar between the two, a peace offering, but the robber was shaking his gun and yelling about the money.

"Get out of me pub, you worthless little shit," Doc replied calmly. Definitely not fear.

The prick didn't take kindly to this observation and raised the gun up to bash down on Doc's skull with the handle.

"Oi, Scumbag," Connor snapped, distracting the robber before he could bring the gun down on Doc, "I suggest you do as he says."

"Oh yea, Asshole?" he replied turning his gun on Connor who didn't even flinch, if this guy was a shooter he would have done it by now. He obviously didn't have the balls, or maybe not even the bullets. "Or What?"

"Or we drag yer sorry arse out of here after we shoot a few holes through that fucking ugly head of yours," I countered as I reached into my inside coat pocket, where I keep my cigarettes. I knew there was nothing but cigarettes in there, and so did Connor, who was following my bluff and reaching into his own jacket. The robber starts backing up and waving his gun between the two of us. I took a step forward as I yelled, "Lord, forgive us for the soul we reap for thee this day!"

"We send him swiftly to thee so thine holy power can throw him to the deepest depths of hell!" Connor yelled towards the heavens, advancing more to push the robber up against the back door. We quickly pulled out hands out of our jackets and the robber was out the door screaming like a little bitch before he can see that all we held was our hands pointed like guns. The bar was silent for a moment until I cock my thumb with my free hand and make a gun sound. We burst into laughter, doubled over with our hands on our knees. We finally recovered and turned towards the bar to see Doc smiling at us and shaking is head in amusement with three full shot glasses in front of him.

"Another," Connor demands as he slams his glass down on the bar, snapping me back to the horrible present. I refill the glasses; we raise them in another silent toast and drain them.

That night, long ago, Doc gave us whiskey and beer and steaming bowls of hearty lamb stew and soda bread. We stayed there until bar time, talking and joking with Doc. He started getting ready to close down so we stood and thanked him for his generosity before turning towards the door.

"And just where do you think you lads are going?" He asked us, stopping us short of the door. We both looked at each other, then to the ground mumbling incoherent things. "That's what I thought. I have a shower and a spare room upstairs and I won't take n-no for an answer"

We both hesitated long enough that he pushed passed us and locked the door and shoved us towards the stairs. " Ok, ok, fine," Connor acquiesced, "but only for tonight."

"Now don't you boys go making promises you can't k-keep." He glanced back at us with a smirk on his face and a twinkle in his eye.

We ended up staying with him for almost three years. He fed us and housed us and would only accept work as payment. We washed dishes, cleaned, stocked shelves, anything he asked us to do we did it. Finally we found a job at the meat plant and eventually we were able to move into our own shitty apartment. It wasn't nearly as nice as living with Doc, but we needed to be on our own.

"And a third," Doc declares from the present, "for good luck." We stand there for a moment after the three shots and watch each other. We are broken from our reverie by a loud crack from the door, it is starting to give way.

"Alright here is the plan," Connor starts, "we are not leaving you without at least a fighting chance. Doc, get everything you need to survive upstairs: food, water, whiskey. The door isn't going to hold much longer at this rate so we need to block the stairs too. Murph and I will leave out the window and shoot the ones by the door to make a pile, an additional blockade, if you will. This will also draw their attention away from the door and onto us. We will lure them away from the building before we make a fucking mad dash for Hubert."

"That, my dear brother, is a fucking brilliant plan," I can't help myself from adding, "for once in yer damn life!" He smacks me on the head and we are about to start wrestling, when Doc interrupts us.

"Lads! We don't have fucking time for your shenanigans if you boys are going to make it out of this alive! FUCK! ASS!"

"Aye Doc, let's go" I say but I punch Connor in the shoulder as soon as he turns away.

Once Doc is safely upstairs, we stand there awkwardly, unsure of the words to say, here at the end of the world. I pull one of Da's old revolvers out of the waistband of my jeans and hand it to Doc without looking at him. He takes it and holds it awkwardly in his arthritic hands, and I am suddenly terrified that he might not even be able to pull the trigger with his knobby fingers.

"It's loaded," I say quietly to expel the thought.

"That's a last fucking resort, Doc, okay?" Connor adds.

"Aye, boys. Thank you. I'm sorry I can't go," Doc's voice cracks at the end and I look up to see his eyes are red and tears are starting to pool. He had been so strong, so brave up until this moment. I know that if any of those tears spill over I will loose all of my resolve and drag him along kicking and screaming. I pull him into a hug before either of us can break.

"I'll see you again someday, Doc," I promise.

"You take care of yourself and your brother, Murph, you boys are like sons to me. I love you," he says it so matter of factly. Like there was never any doubt. We always felt that kind of relationship with Doc but this is the first time it has been voiced by any of us. His simple declaration is my undoing and I am no longer able to swallow back the tears that have been choking me.

"Love you too, Doc," I smile at him through my tears and release him. I see his words have had the same effect on Connor. Doc puts his hands on Connors shoulders.

"Same goes for you, Connor," Doc says, "I love you, lad."

"You too, Doc" Connor nods tears streaking his cheeks, he pulls the older man into a strong embrace, "you too." After what feels like an eternity Doc breaks Connor's hold and starts shoving us out the window.

"Now you boys get out of here before you get us all k-k-k-killed, you little shits! Fuck! Ass!"

"Alright, alright, catch you on the flip side, Fuck Ass!" I say smiling despite it all. I kiss his forehead before ducking out the window and emptying my side arms into the mass below.

From there, Connor's plan works without a hitch. There really is a first time for everything. We are sitting in Hubert, catching our breath before we leave Boston forever. Connor is behind the wheel and I'm riding shot gun with, well, a shotgun. Granted, almost any other gun would be more practical: A pistol for maneuverability, a rifle for accuracy, but let's be honest a shotgun is way more fucking bad-ass.

Connor starts the engine and there is some pounding on the door. I insert a CD into the stereo and flip to number song I need to drown out the moans of the dead.

_His eyes they closed_

_And his last breath spoke_

_He had seen all to be seen_

_A life once full _

_Now an empty vase_

_Wilt the blossoms of his early grave_

_Walk away me boy_

_Walk away me boy_

_And by morning we'll be free_

_Wipe the golden tear_

_From your mother dear_

_And raise what's left of the flag for me_

We each take one last shaky breath and swallow the last of our tears. He looks at me and I nod to him and he guns it through the door and tears down the crowded street, horn blaring to draw the mob away from Doc.

_And the rosary beads_

_Count them 1-2-3_

_Fell apart as they hit the floor_

_In a garb of black we must pay respect_

_To the color we're born to mourn _

Hubert doesn't even break a sweat as it mows over countless dead. I look back and see the "McGinty's" sign shrinking behind us as we make our way out of this God forsaken city and away from the only family and home we have left.

_With madman's rage_

_Well they dug our graves_

_And the dead rise again_

_You fools.*_

* "What's Left of the Flag" by Flogging Molly on Drunken Lullabies


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thank you for the reviews, they are encouraging! **

**Also, I still don't own anything.**

**Chapter 3**

No life that's worth living is easy. That had been one of my favorite sayings back when sayings still meant anything. Back when anything still meant anything. My life had never been easy. Raised by a single mother who fancied her whiskey as much as the next Irish broad, living in the slums of South Boston, being appointed by God to rid the city of its corrupted evil, being on the run, and eventually arrested and put in prison. Not easy at all, but I wouldn't have traded any of it for an easy life. To me, easy was synonymous with boring. Sure, I had hardships, but I worked for everything I had and what I had was enough. Ease was unappealing then, but what I wouldn't give for it now. This new life in this horrible new world is as far from easy as I can imagine. Nothing had been easy since the day we escaped The Hoag, but this is the first day that I wondered if this life is in fact still worth living.

"You gonna smoke that or just stare at it?" Connor brings my attention back to the cigarette that is burning in my right hand. It's over half burned already with the ash falling onto my jeans. I honestly don't even remember lighting it but I flick the ash onto the floorboards and bring it to my lips to take a deep drag, grateful for the harsh, calming burn down my throat.

I concentrate very diligently on burning that cigarette as far as I can before snubbing it out. I feel I need to make up for the half stick I already wasted while I was lost in thought. Idiot. We had obtained as many cartons as we could from the local stores, but our supply is shrinking faster than we can find new ones. There is no way to know if we will ever find any more or not so there is no point in wasting any that can be helped. Usually Connor would be chewing me out over the waste of precious supplies but I think his thoughts are not too far from mine. Granted, there is not a chance in hell that either of us is going to call it quits as long as the other is around, but today, leaving Doc behind in an overrun Boston, makes living seem like possibly too much to bear.

I look up to see where we are. I vaguely recognize our surroundings as a suburb. I say "vaguely" because I always thought of suburbs as being bustling with soccer moms, kids on bikes, dogs on leashes, and, well, life. That is not the case in this neighborhood. The children's bicycles lay abandoned in the street. The dead of all sizes are milling about. That's the hardest part of all of this; the children. With my brothers and my former employment, it is not difficult to imagine that most of the walking dead have disgraced humanity in some way. Any disgrace against humanity, though flimsy, is at least an excuse for what people have become. But these children, these dead children that are walking around with their bike helmets still strapped in place or their tattered ballerina dresses. One of them is missing an arm and most of her face, another's skin is torn and hanging from its neck. They couldn't possibly have done anything to deserve this fate, they hadn't lived long enough.

I shake my head to clear it. No amount of dwelling will help those children; I can only hope that God was able to take notice of them among the flood of souls from this apocalypse. I turn to Connor before my gaze drifts back out the window.

"So where are we headed?" I ask, desperate for a subject change for my dark thoughts. Also, we never really discussed further than getting out of Boston.

"The open road," he responds ominously as if it is a mystical concept.

"Right, okay, so where is this open road? And where does it go?"

"Aye, no one knows for sure, baby brother. That's what makes it exciting!"

"No, the highly contagious flesh eating zombies make it exciting! This isn't a stupid fucking spring break road trip, this is serious fucking shit!"

"Oh calm the fuck down, Murph," he reaches behind my seat and comes up with a bottle of Jameson, "here, sit back, relax, and let the man of the family worry about the details."

"Ah, fuck you, Con, I don't need to calm down," I say as I screw the cap off and take a long drink anyways before adding, "and ya ain't no 'man' of anything." He is smirking to himself as he watches out the windshield. "Seriously though, where's the map?"

"What map? We don't need no fucking map."

"We don't have a map?! We have three cases of whiskey, two months worth or food, a small armory, and don't forget your stupid fucking rope-"

"Ah don't even fucking go on about the rope again, you know that it has proven itself useful over and over again. I have had it up to here with your negativity." He uses his right hand to indicate that he has had "it" up to just over his ear.

We are still on the outskirts of civilization, but currently on a wooded highway with no buildings insight. There are occasional cars along the ditches, but they are all either empty or occasionally even with the rotting bodies of people who had the means to make the hard choice in the face of inevitable doom and shot themselves in the head. There must have been a fairly large mob that roamed this highway.

"But how can you not pack a fucking map? Mr. Always-Has-A-Stupid-Fucking-Plan doesn't think to pack a map."

"What the fuck do we even need a map for? Nothing that's on the map is still going to be there anyways."

"Yeah, you're right, absolutely nothing but the fucking ROADS!"

"I'm telling ya, Murph, we don't nee-"

"Shit! Look out!" Connor slams on the breaks, but its too late. Hubert plows into the walker. There was enough momentum from the speed that the corpse ripped in half around the waist, its legs going under both driver side wheels, and its top half flying over the hood and crashing into the windshield, leaving a spider web crack in the bottom corner on my side.

"First day on the road and you trash the Hummer. Nice." The half-corpse on the hood knows we are here now; I'm not sure which of its senses it used to make the connection but its now growling, pawing at the cracked windshield, and biting the air in our direction. "Would you please take care of that, dear brother?"

"With pleasure." He floors the accelerator for a short distance and slams on the breaks, causing the torso to slide off the hood and roll several times across the blacktop, loosing chunks of flesh at every contact. It skids to a stop then slowly begins to drag itself towards us. They really don't give up easily. We simultaneously cross ourselves before Connor accelerates once more, aiming for its skull with the front right tire. We are rewarded with the "ba-dump ba-dump" that signified a direct hit with both tires.  
I watch in the rearview as he pulls away, even though I know there is not much left to worry over. Something catches my eye. There is a car in the ditch with its doors open, but like I said: not unusual. What is unusual is the ten walkers crowded around a tree and a flash of something blue out of their reach.

"Go back," I demand.

"I'm pretty sure he's done for. No point is wasting fuel on it."

"Seriously, Connor, go back. I think there's someone in the tree." His eyes grow wide as my words sink in and he stops Hubert.

"Alive?"

"Alive enough to draw a small herd of walkers." Without another word he turns around.

As we pull up, the flash of blue I noticed in the mirror becomes a T-shirt worn by a young boy. I'm a terrible judge of age on children, having never spent much time with them. I would guess him to be ten but in all honesty he could be anywhere from six to fourteen. He has dark, shaggy hair that just brushes his eye lashes. There is blood on his shirt, but he doesn't look like he is bleeding anywhere. His face is a stony mask, cheeks streaked with tears that have been cried dry, by the looks of it. If he knows we are here, he isn't letting on. His eyes are trained on the mob below him. Most of the walkers at the base are making weak, almost lazy attempts to reach the child, probably from the lack of sustenance these days. Most of these undead have been rotting and falling apart for a long time now. There is one in particular that stands out among the group as having the most aggressive attempt at reaching the child; a female whose skin still carries a somewhat rosy color, as opposed to the yellowish gray of those around her, her skin is intact, not splitting open or falling off, with the exception of the poorly bandaged wound on her left forearm. Her hair is the exact same color as the boys.

"Shit," I gasp under my breath.

"His mom?" Connor has come to the same conclusion I have. I look at the car and see the pool of blood in the back seat.

"Looks like it."

"Shit," Connor echoes me, "well we can't leave him there."

I notice there's a revolver right outside the open car door on the ground. Either the kid didn't have the bullets or the heart to shoot his mom in the head before she turned, I'm guessing the latter.

"No, we can't," I sigh, "he's not going to like us terminating his mom though."

We both open our doors and step out into the road. We each un-holster a 9mm and walk towards the tree. We start shooting, taking down each corpse with one bullet straight through what's left of their brains. We drop all of the corpses, save one. Neither of us is too eager to send the final bullet into the skull of the kid's mom while he watches from above. Her attention is on us now and she is growling in a way that was almost a scream as she stumbles through the underbrush towards us. With her attention diverted, and the rest of the walkers down, the kid starts to climb down the tree. We never take our sights off of her, but my trigger finger is placed along the barrel instead of on the trigger. When the kid is almost to the ground a branch breaks and he squeals as he falls the last few feet to the soft forest floor. At the sound of his voice, his undead mother whips back towards him and lunges. Connor and I both shoot her through the skull before she could reach the boy.

"NOOOOOO!" the kid screams as she hit the ground. He scrambles over to her lifeless heap and pulls her bleeding head into his lap. He bends his body around her and sobs into her hair. Connor and I kneel beside them and lower our heads in silent prayer. Prayer for the deceased woman, but more so for the child clinging to her for all he's worth. We hear some rustling and look up to see that the commotion has lured in a few more walking corpses. We quickly set to dispatching anything in sight to let the boy grieve in peace as long as he needs. After about ten minutes or so there are no more new corpses coming towards us and the boys sobs have calmed to whimpers.

I walk over to the boy and put my head on his shoulder, which he promptly hits away. I sit down next to him, keeping my hands to myself, and he studiously ignores my presence.

" Hey, Laddy," I start softly, "I'm so sorry that had to happen." He continues to diligently ignore me. "I wish that this didn't have to be this way." Nothing. "You know that we had to do it, right? We had no choice." At this he looks up at me with piercing gray eyes and glares with more venom in his look than I knew possible. I let out a breath, thankful that he can both hear and understand me, that should make this easier. "I know, I would hate me right now too." His glare is unfaltering. "You know she wasn't who she used to be, right? You know she was going to attack you. We couldn't let that happen." He looks back down at the woman in his arms and starts smoothing her hair back out of her face. Her eyes are wide open and staring without seeing. I tentatively reach towards her face, "do you mind?" He looks at my hand then back to the woman. He doesn't exactly acquiesce, but he doesn't deny me either, so I cautiously move my hand over her eyes and slide her lids shut. I moved my hand to the side of her head and tried to ignore the slime that poured out of the bullet hole, and bowed my head in prayer. Connor kneeled on the other side of the woman and together we pray over her.

"Heavenly Father, we recommend the beautiful soul of this woman to Thee. We pray, Lord, that you will help her find peace within your kingdom." I cross over her as we finish, "In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, Amen"

We sit in silence for a little while, Connor and I share a loaded glance, I nod and he heads back to Hubert for supplies. People always marvel over our ability to converse without words, but when you share a womb and a life with someone for long enough, you understand how their brain works.

"Hey, Laddy," I start in again, "I think we should bury her now, are you okay with that?" He sniffles and wipes his nose on his bare forearm, then nods ever so slightly.

Connor shows up with a shovel and sets to work digging a grave for the woman. The boy, with shaking hands, reaches down and removes her wedding ring from her left hand and a Claddagh ring from her right, then he moves to remove the chain around her neck, but his hands are shaking so terribly that he can't manage the delicate clasp.

"Here, let me help you," I reach forward and unclasp the necklace. I pull it out and hand it to him, at the end of it hangs a man's wedding band and a horseshoe charm. The boy adds the diamond ring to the chain and slides the Claddagh onto his thumb, the only finger big enough to hold it. I help him clasp the chain around his neck and he gathers the rings into his hand and holds them. I find a sheet in the vacant car and help the boy wrap his mother in it. By this time, Connor has dug a large enough grave and we lowered her into it. I reach for the shovel to start covering her but the boy held out his hand to I passed it over to him. Connor and I stepped back and stood guard while the boy slowly covered his mom with the loose soil. We fashioned a cross out of some sticks and pounded it in the ground above the grave.

We are standing together by the grave and I put my hand on the boy's shoulder, he flinches but makes no attempt to remove it. He lets out a sigh and hangs his head, kicking the toe of his dirty sneaker in the weeds.

"Well, I think its about time we move on," I say, clapping Connor on the back. I turn to the boy, "are you ready, Lad?" He looks up at me startled. "What, you didn't think we would save you just so we could leave you in the wilderness to fend for yourself, did you?" He just blinks at me, face blank. "Come on, we have plenty of room and plenty of food." His lips twitch ever so minutely; I grin at him in return and turn to walk towards Hubert. My smile widens when I hear him follow after me.

"Do you need to grab anything from your car first?" I ask as we approach the road. He nods, looking down, and shuffles over to the car. He pulls a backpack, a football, and a skateboard out of the back seat. Out of the front he grabs a car charger with an iPod attached to it and stuffs it in the front pocket of his backpack. A car charger? I wish I had thought of that, here I was thinking we would have to rely on AA batteries and CDs. Smart lad. He pops the trunk and digs through its contents. His hands linger on another bag before he wipes his nose on his forearm again and shakes his head slightly. He grabs a box and slams the trunk shut. Without any words or expression he turns from the car and back towards us. I open the back door for him and we all climb in.

I turn in my seat to face the boy, "I'm Murphy, by the way, and this is my brother Connor." The boy nods once as a greeting but makes no move to speak. I can't say that I blame him; he's had a rough go today. I notice his blue shirt has a star within red and white circles. Captain America. Connor is watching through the rearview mirror as I continue on, "Lad, I know you don't want to talk right now, and that's okay, you don't have to, but will you tell me your name?" The boy just looks out the window towards the fresh grave. "Aye, then I will call you 'Captain' until you are ready to tell us." He is still looking out the window, but I think I see his cheek rise up in a smile. I glance at Connor who is smirking into the mirror at the boy.

"Well, Captain, are you ready?" Connor asks the boy, who nods. "Then here we go." We pull back onto the road and continue in the direction we were headed down the wooded highway.


	4. Chapter 4

**Sorry it has been a while. Enjoy.**

**Chapter 4**

I have always loved the way the open country can make a man feel. Everything about it is good for the soul, especially in Ireland. We raised our sheep in the most beautiful country imaginable. The rolling waves of green grass, the breathtakingly sheer cliffs that plummet into the sea below them. Sea breeze, fresh cut hay, and horse sweat: the absolute best smells that I have encountered in my time on this planet. I find myself in the heart of it now. "God's Country" my mother always called it. She might have been a crazy old bat, but she definitely had that right.

I feel my gelding, Tucker, shift his weight under me and shake his head. I close my eyes to cherish the sound of leather squeaking and the metal of his bit tapping his teeth. I knot my fingers into his thick flaxen mane and hold tight to his memory. I must be dreaming again, because the last thing I was aware of I was with Connor driving around New England dodging corpses along the highway, and we smelt of man-sweat, dirt, and rotting corpses. This is a good dream, and I intend to cherish every moment of it. I'm alone, just me, Tucker, and the sheep. It was rare to be out here without Connor, even though there are no threats out here, we had long since developed the habit of always being around to watch each other's backs. Old habits die hard, after all.

I dismount and start scratching Tucker's shoulder; he turns back and sniffs at my pockets for peppermints. I chuckle and pull one out for him; he takes it noisily with his big lips and crunches it happily. I am ridiculously fond of this horse. I work my hands into his mane and start scratching deep into the crest of his neck. He lets out a grunt and stretches his neck out as far as it will go. I keep scratching until he tips his nose up and points his upper lip towards the heavens in pure ecstasy with his scratching. I stop suddenly when I hear a panicked chorus of bleating come from the sheep herd and I turn towards them to see that the undead have descended upon them and are busily feasting on the unfortunate sheep. Fuck. It seems I cannot escape these assholes in either waking or slumber. I pull out one my Barretas to save the sheep, like I would against any predator. I quickly glance over my shoulder to check on Connor when I remember Connor was never here. _Thank God, Connor isn't here_¸ I'm just thinking to myself when I hear a painfully familiar yell followed by a gurgled scream.

"Connor!" I yell, suddenly desperate to reach him even though I know, somewhere in my heart, that nothing can save him anymore. I still need to find him, save as much of him as I can. I turn back to Tucker so I can mount up and race over to where I heard Connor, but I find that my trusty gelding has also been taken down and torn apart by several walkers. Connor's screaming gurgles to silence and I'm frozen in place by how quickly everything has gone to shit. I feel the earth crash into my knees and the hard barrel of my gun pressing into my right thigh as I unwittingly collapse to the ground. I look down to the hand holding the offending gun; I stare at the tattoo that runs the length of my finger. Aéquitas. Justice. There is no justice left in this world.

The walkers seem to have just noticed me and are closing in; I'm still unable to force myself to move as they come closer. That's what I hate about dreams, no matter how much you need to move or how much adrenaline is pumping through your veins, you might as well be made of stone. There aren't so many corpses here, less than the number of bullets in my hand, but what's the point? What do I have to fight for now? They are moving painfully slow, even more so than the dead move in reality. The first one reaches me and bites deep into my left shoulder, sending an unbearable pain and burning heat through my entire being. It spurs me into motion. I raise my right hand and press the cold barrel of the barreta against my temple. My left arm shakily crosses myself and I look to the heavens.

"I'm so sorry," I mutter skyward. To Connor, for not saving him. To God, for forcing his hand on my own life. To anyone who wants to hear it. _I'm sorry, please forgive me._ Another one latches onto my leg. I didn't think the pain could get worse, turns out it can. This new pain does not simply rise to meet the old, it amplifies it excruciatingly. I start to squeeze the trigger-

"Oi! Murph! You bet your ass you're gonna be sorry if you don't wake the fuck up! It's your turn to drive," Connor is grumbling from behind the wheel. He reaches over and smacks me on the head to ensure I'm awake. "Jesus Christ, Murph, you're sweatin' bullets. Are you alright?"

"Lord's fucking name," I mutter as a response as I absently run my left hand over my inked index finger, hoping he doesn't notice my attempt to dodge his question.

Connor rolls his eyes and crosses himself muttering, "Mother Mary, full of grace." He looks at me again, and I notice his eyes flit to where my hand it still caressing the Latin word. If he has any thoughts about my behavior, he keeps them to himself. "So, are you gonna drive? Or just sit there and look pretty?"

Now it's my turn to roll my eyes as I get out of Hubert.

"Oh, and we are about empty, should fill up." Connor informs me.

"Aye." We set to work unloading the two five gallon gas cans off the roof of the hummer and dump them in. After strapping the empty cans back in place, we move towards our new seats. I freeze with my hand on the door handle as I catch glimpse of a boy studying me intently from the backseat. Captain. I guess that part wasn't a dream then, I wasn't sure, it is becoming difficult to distinguish. I smile and nod in what I hope is a comforting fashion to acknowledge the boy, and climb behind the wheel.

* * *

I force myself to focus on the task at hand. Never before has driving taken so much effort. My mind it trying its damndest to stray to anything else: galloping Tucker over the grassy knolls, driving, the chestnut gelding snorting rhythmically with each powerful stride, walker on the highway, sea breeze brushing against my face on the edge of the cliffs, abandoned car, shooting Captain's mom, leaving Doc, more walkers on the highway, Romeo locked in solitary, Tucker being ripped to shreds in my dream.

My breathing is starting to quicken, and my palms are slick with sweat against the steering wheel. _Ding-ding._ I shake my head to clear it and force myself to focus on the blinking orange light next to the fuel gauge. Fucking perfect. Now we are out of gas in a world without conveniences on a walker infested highway. It seems we didn't really plan this through. The hummer seemed like the perfect choice for an apocalypse; sturdy, plenty of storage and leg room. For some reason, nine miles to the gallon didn't seem like an issue worth fretting over at the time. I scan our surroundings and let off the gas. There are several cars along this stretch of road that we could siphon gas from. My mouth dries at the thought of having to suck the gasoline out of those tanks. I look for walkers. How long has it been since I saw that last group? Two minutes? Five? An hour? Fuck. I don't even know how long I've been driving. I come to a complete stop and Connor stirs in the passenger seat.

"What are you stopping for?" he asks, agitated that he woke up.

"We're out of gas, genius. But there's a bunch of cars along here, so we can probably find some."

"Shit. Already? That was our backup stores too."

"Aye, well these are typically rated for fuel efficiency." I gesture sarcastically to the dashboard of Hubert. Connor glares at me and I grin back before we both move to exit the truck. When we hear the third door open we both turn to the back seat. I am again surprised to find the child sitting there. At least I didn't draw my gun on him, even though I can feel the cold steel in my palm that instinctively flew to it. _Fuck, Murph, get your head on straight!_

"I think it'd be best if you stay here, Laddy," Connor suggested to the boy, who narrows his eyes in response, and proceeds out of the vehicle. Connor and I look at each other, dumbfounded. I shrug and follow the boy into the road. I decide to try a different approach.

"Well Connor, you and I can scope out the cars for gas, but what we really need is a lookout." I rub my chin, pretending to deeply consider our options then look around before looking at Captain. "Say, Captain, would you be our lookout?" I don't for one second believe this kid is stupid enough to get tricked into thinking this is an important task. He has survived this long so he is no idiot, but he will be safest in the car and I'm grasping for straws to get him there.

He looks between us, a somewhat pleading expression on his face. We remain impassive and his face turns stony, determined. We stare back, just as determined, finally he lets out an angry sigh and rolls his eyes as he turns back and climbs into the back seat. _Huh, I can't believe that worked._ Connor and I quickly set to work getting the supplies ready.

We walk down through the abandoned cars checking for gas, some are empty, some have corpses. We tried the first several cars, coming up with only a couple gallons between them. Surely, one of these cars has a full tank. When we come across a car with a body in it we kneel, say a quick prayer, cross ourselves, and move on. It's difficult to know whether our efforts are futile or not, but if any of these souls are hanging in limbo and can be saved by a quick prayer, then it is worth trying.

After about five cars we come across another with a corpse in it. We kneel next to the open door and bow our heads, just like the ones prior. Only this time our prayer is answered by a raspy breathing and low hiss. I look up just in time to see the corpse in the car fall out onto the blacktop and latch onto Connors arm, biting at the air in an attempt to reach his flesh. Connor pushes backwards and starts kicking the undead in an attempt to get away. Everything slows down, just like in my dream. Unlike my dream, however, there is still much to fight for and I am not made of stone. Even so, it still feels like an eternity has passed by the time I draw my gun and send a bullet through the supposed brain of the corpse next to me. Connor kicks the thing away from him and we sit there trying to regain our breath, never looking away from it.

"Fuck," Connor says, effectively summing up this entire moment in one word.

"You got that right, Brother," I grunt, and tare my eyes away from the corpse and look to Connor. His arm is red from where thing gripped him but I don't see any broken skin. "Are you okay? He didn't get you at all, did he?" I suddenly realize how panicked I am as I hear my own voice shaking during that last question. All of my nightmares of Connor getting infected come crashing in on me as I realize how close of a call this was, and my breathing rate picks up again before he even has a chance to answer. He puts a hand on my shoulder and waits until I look him in the eye.

"I'm fine, Murph. Not even a scratch." He's grinning at me now, "I'm not goin' anywhere just yet, dear brother."

I am now aware that I was holding my breath and I release it with a grateful huff. He stands up and offers me a hand to help me up. It is pathetic really, he is the one attacked by a zombie and I am the one needing comforting. He doesn't seem to mind, though, and it's probably because he's made the same decision as me: it would be a hell of a lot easier to be killed in this world than to loose my brother. Dying in a world that is no longer meant for the living is expected, but having to move on without him would kill me in a way that would make a zombie bite a welcomed relief.

I allow him to pull me up and instantly pull him into an embrace when we are the same height again. He doesn't fight it, doesn't mock me, he even hugs me back. I pull back after a short while and smile at him.

"Fuck. That was a close one."

"Aye. Too close. No more praying for the undead." Connor grinned and I actually chuckled.

"Aye, lets make sure they are all the way dead from now on." We finish the prayer for the corpse at our feet gather our supplies again. Connor is carrying all of the supplies and I have my gun at the ready and my head on a swivel, prepared for any more surprises.

We are almost to the next car when we hear a surprised yelp behind us that could only be made by a child. I spin around, finger on the trigger, to see Captain in the street several cars back from us with a corpse grabbing onto his ankles. The undead is missing its lower legs so it must have dragged itself out from under the car as Captain walked by. Captain has broken free from the prone walker and raises both of his arms shakily in front of him. I notice the revolver between his hands too late and a loud gunshot rings through the trees around us before I can stop him. The force of the kickback nocks Captain on his ass and the undead is still crawling towards him, the bullet missing its brain and embedding in its shoulder. This is a longer range than I am used to so I take a deep breath and focus on the slowly moving target, I squeeze the trigger as I exhale and the force of the bullet entering its temple rolls it onto its back where it lay unmoving.

"Shit. We gotta move out now," Connor says quietly behind me. "This highway will be swarming with geeks within an hour." He's right, that gunfire just made our little stretch of road a zombie hotspot. I run back to Captain, painfully aware of the sloshing in the almost empty gas cans that Connor is carrying one step behind me. Captain is just standing and dusting himself off when we reach him. I see the gun he is gripping tightly in his right hand and I don't recognize it, he must have grabbed it from his car with the rest of his things. I'm tempted to yank it from his grasp for not listening, but I know better than to deprive a desperate man, or boy, of his weapon.

"Are you okay, Lad?" I ask, his response is an annoyed glare followed by a curt nod. "Why didn't you stay in the car? We told you to stay in the fucking car!" My voice is getting louder with each word. His glare holds steady under mine and we stand there for a while, just glaring at each other until Connor pats my shoulder and we both look at him.

"We don't have time for this shit right now. We can talk about it in the truck. Right now we need to get this gas in and get the hell out of here, they are already starting to move in." I look over his shoulder and I see several of them crashing through the undergrowth of the forest. I nod and snatch the can from Connor that actually has some fuel in it. "Captain, do you remember where we got these from? Good, can you put them back? Excellent, get to it, then." Captain runs past me with the siphoning supplies and opens the back hatch to stow them away. Now it is Connor's turn to keep watch while I work. Captain begrudgingly climbs back into the backseat at Connor's insistence.

There isn't much gas which is obviously bad, because it won't get us much further, but it is also good because by the time it is all dumped in the undead are closing in on us. Connor drops them as soon as they break through the trees and just as I am getting the can strapped to the roof there is a rapid knocking on the window from inside and Connor turns just in time to shoot the bastard that is coming around Hubert from the other side.

"Time to go!" he yells to me as I finish fastening I jump down and he runs around, shooting a few more corpses before jumping into the passenger seat. I turn the key and jump into gear flying forward before we can get swarmed. I mow over the scattered walkers that have made it to the highway in front of us. Connor is clinging to his rosary and muttering prayers for the soulless bodies that surround us.

Once the highway clears more and we are no longer in danger of being overrun, I slow down. The fuel gauge is just barely above the red. I point it out to Connor who nods and looks back to Captain, who is looking out the window.

"We didn't get enough fuel, Cap. We are going to have to stop again soon to get more. We need to work together, as a team, if we want to survive. Can you work with us?" He nods, still looking out the window. "You'll help us keep each other safe?" he nods again. "Even if it means doing what you're told?" His head whips around and Connor raises his eyebrows. Captain lowers his eyes to his lap and nods again, smaller this time. "Good. Glad to hear it." Connor turns back to face the front and we continue down the highway.

* * *

About 25 miles down the highway we are running on fumes as we come to another grouping of cars. I put the Hummer into park and kill the engine. I look to the back seat and then to Connor who meets my eyes and nods before exiting to collect the supplies. Captain's head is hanging low as he knots his fingers.

"Captain?" He looks up. "I think we need help carrying supplies since one of us will need to be on constant lookout. Do you want to help with the supplies or stay here?" His head snaps up and he grins before opening the door. "Oh, Captain? The Colt stays here, cowboy." He looks at me eyes wide in fear and starts shaking his head. "I know, buddy, I know, but the gun is too loud. Connor and I will watch out for you and you can carry my knife to protect yourself." I offer up my Bowie knife. Captain looks from the knife in my hand to the gun in his, weighing his options. "The gun stays here, kid, no exceptions, if you want it you can stay with it. If you want to come with us, you can carry the knife." He sighs and grabs the knife before leaving the gun on the seat. "Now, that is very sharp, so be careful." He rolls his eyes and moves to the back to help Connor.

We are much more successful on this stop, the tank is filled to the brim and both cans are full and strapped to the top. We traveled as a group, worked as a team, Connor and I took turns carrying the full cans and keeping watch. We took out several walkers that came from the woods, but nothing that threatened to over power us like before. We climb back in the truck and continue down the road. Both Connor and Captain are sound asleep before we make it ten miles. Captain's gun is beside him on the seat and he is grasping the sheathed knife in his lap. I can't help but smile as I drive down the highway, thankful that we all survived the day.

**Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think!**


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